


The Moebius Paradox

by Callie



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2011-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:54:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie/pseuds/Callie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helen Magnus's carriage strikes a young man one afternoon, a young man who she is shocked to discover comes from her own future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter of what I hope will be a nice long fic about Will's misadventures in the 1800's. Thanks to Cerie for filling my head with the idea. :)

There was a thud and the carriage came to an abrupt stop that nearly toppled Helen from her seat. "Dawson, what's happened?" she called as she righted herself.

"An accident, Miss Magnus," the driver replied. "Someone's got in the way."

Helen did not wait for the driver to come and open her door, but got out of the carriage on her own and went to see for herself what had happened. She disliked waiting for others to tell her anything of importance, and if it was an accident, then her assistance would likely be required.

Her carriage had struck a young man, quite oddly dressed. A brief examination revealed he was unconscious, but alive, and injured enough to need immediate medical attention. "Dawson, if you please, help me get him into the house. Father's study." Another driver would have perhaps insisted that it was not appropriate for a lady to bring a strange man into the house to bleed upon the carpets, but Dawson had worked for her father long enough that he was used to bringing all sorts of creatures into and out of the house at all times of the day and night, and he simply nodded, gathering up the injured man and carrying him into the house.

"Will you be needing anything else, Miss Magnus?" Dawson asked, once the young man had been settled on the sofa. 

"Thank you, Dawson, but everything is under control." Helen had already begun removing the tattered coat and shirt to inspect the young man's injuries. "Please go and tend to the horses."

No sooner had Dawson left than Father appeared in the doorway, drawn from the parlor by the commotion, with simultaneous exclamations of surprise and curiosity. Fortunately those exclamations were accompanied by offers of assistance, and as her father tended to offer assistance in a collegial way as opposed to a condescending one, Helen was inclined to accept. "He got in the way of the carriage," she explained. "I couldn't leave him on the street, so I had Dawson bring him in. I think his arm will need to be set."

"He's lucky he wasn't trampled to death," her father said, and nodded in agreement as to the state of the young man's arm. "It's a clean break, and should set nicely."

"I wonder what on Earth he was doing there, right in the middle of the street," Helen said, as she and her father worked together to set the arm. "And why Dawson didn't see him--he's such a careful driver, always, and in broad daylight, too. Very peculiar."

"Perhaps we can learn more when he wakes. That wound will need stitches." There was a long gash along the crown of his head; not deep, but long enough that it would not heal easily without mending. Several others as well, all of them likely from the horses' hooves, and for the next little while the two of them worked together to patch up their patient and put him to rights. While Helen felt quite sorry for the poor young man, she did enjoy the opportunity to work closely with her father. They made a good team, so much so that at times they were able to work quite well together with little more than a word or two, intuitively understanding each other's thought processes and complementing each other in a most harmonious way. That was something Helen loved very much about her father: the way he respected her abilities and simply let her work, treating her as a trusted colleague. There were very few men of her acquaintance that treated her so. Those few who did had become rare and valuable friends indeed.

When they were finished, Helen moved to wash her hands. "I think he'll be all right," she said optimistically. "He had a good knock on the head, so I don't expect he'll wake for another few hours. Perhaps we should move him upstairs?"

Her father agreed to see to it, leaving Helen alone with her patient and her curiosity. She had never seen someone who looked so normal and yet so  _ odd _ , as if there were something not quite right about him. Perhaps he was an Abnormal? She didn't think so, and suspected her father did not think so either or he would have said as much when they were examining him. The style of his hair--very odd, sticking up all over his head and a bit stiff even in the places not matted with blood, as if coated with some sort of strange pomade--and the material of his clothes were simply not quite right, and there was something on his right wrist Helen assumed to be a watch, but how odd it was indeed! Not worn in a pocket on a chain, like a proper pocketwatch, but upon the wrist, and with strangely shaped numbers, instead of a face and hands. And his coat, not nearly long enough for a proper overcoat and far too thin, fastening in such a strange way, with a double row of what appeared to be tiny metal teeth instead of buttons. She spent a few moments trying to determine how they fit together and was quite pleased with herself when she realized that one end must be fit to the other and joined together with the little metal tab, which made an amusing little sound as the it was pulled up and down.

"You hit me."

Her patient's voice startled her, so much so that she dropped his coat, even though he spoke no louder than a soft murmur. "You got in the way," Helen blurted, and immediately felt awful, for it was quite rude of her, but he did not seem to mind or even notice, apparently lapsing into unconsciousness again. She checked his pulse, found it slow and regular and his breathing unlaboured, so there was little else to do but wait for him to wake again.

Her heart was hammering as she bent to retrieve the coat, and as she did so she noticed something had fallen out of it. A small leather object, folded, which opened revealed a pocket contaning queer-looking foreign banknotes and various small documents, printed upon paper the likes of which Helen had never seen, paper that was hard and shiny and felt almost disagreeable to the touch. One of these documents contained a portrait of the young man, listing his name as William Zimmerman, his address as Old City, British Columbia--Canada! what on Earth was he doing here?--and his birthdate as March,  _1975_.

Nineteen hundred and seventy-five! Simply impossible! Surely some kind of mistake upon the part of the typesetter, for someone's birthdate could not be from nearly a hundred years into the future. Beneath this document was another card, roughly the size of a calling card, that read:

  


SANCTUARY

FOR ALL

Dr. Helen Magnus

M.D.  D.T.C.X.B.

  
Helen hardly had time to dwell on this discovery, for she heard the servants' footsteps in the hallway. They must be the ones Father had sent to take this man upstairs, she thought, and hastily shoved the leather pouch and cards into the pocket of her skirt, out of sight. She wanted to examine them further and question Mr. Zimmerman herself before revealing any of this to anyone else, for something about this whole affair felt very strange, even moreso than the Abnormals with which Father worked every day, and she was determined to work out this mystery for herself.

*****

  
Will woke up slowly from a crazy dream involving runaway horses, an accident, and Magnus with shiny yellow curls and a fancy dress. That last part disturbed him a little bit, because he always felt kind of guilty when he had a dream that even remotely involved Magnus, but when he woke all the way he realized that maybe he wasn't actually dreaming, because there was Magnus, sitting in a chair beside the bed with a book open on her lap, lost in reading. He didn't have a chance to wonder on the blonde hair and layers of skirt, because everything  _ hurt _ and he was trying not to make any kind of embarrassing groaning sounds.

Apparently he failed in that, because Magnus looked up, closing her book and folding her hands on top of it. "Hello," she said, in a tone that Will had recognized over the years as meaning _ I want to know exactly what you're up to, and you're going to tell me. _ What he couldn't figure out was why she was using that tone on him, and why the hell she looked like...well, like  _ that _ .

"Uh, hi," he managed, and tried to sit up, but his left arm and most of his ribs screamed in protest and he didn't quite manage it.

"How are you feeling?" she asked in that same tone. 

It kind of made Will feel like the bad kid in school, and he tried again to sit up. "Like hell. Look, Magnus, what's going on here? I don't know--"

"That's  _ Doctor _ Magnus, to you." She stood and pulled his wallet out of her pocket, dropping it in his lap. "I'd like you to explain why the documents you carry give your birthdate as a hundred years from now, and why you have this calling card in your possession which I've never even seen before even though it has my name on it,  _ and _ how much you know about my father's work."

Okay, something was very,  _ very _ wrong here, but Will couldn't figure out what it was. She'd said  _ your birthdate as a hundred years from now _ , which, along with the way she was dressed and the room lit and furnished, gave him a pretty good idea that he was somehow  _ not in his own time _ . It was a ridiculous explanation, but what else fit?  Once he finally managed to sit up, ( _ ow _ ), he took a moment to assess his injuries (numerous) and said, "Okay, Dr. Magnus. I really don't know what's going on here, but I'll try to tell you what little bit I do know, as long as you promise to believe what I say. I give you my word that I'm going to tell you the absolute truth." The Magnus he knew expected complete honesty, so whatever was going on here, he had to believe that this Magnus was the same--at least in that respect. 

Magnus watched him for a few seconds, then nodded.  "Very well," she said. "Please explain."

"Okay, first of all, my name is Will. Will Zimmerman. I'm your--I'm a friend, and I work for you. In 2010."

"That's preposterous," she interrupted, and her cheeks flushed with what Will was pretty sure was anger. "I might be a woman, Mr. Zimmerman, but I'm not a fool. Everyone knows time travel is merely a tool of bad novelists and those with more imagination than sense. You cannot possibly be from the future, and I cannot possibly be alive in another hundred and thirty five years. You must be mistaking me for my great granddaughter, perhaps."

"It's um,  _D octor_ Zimmerman, actually," he said, shifting a little in the bed to try to find a way to sit comforably.  "And I promise you, I'm telling the truth." How could he convince her, without telling too much? Will was no physicist or anything like that, but he'd seen  _ Back to the Future _ and seen enough sci-fi to know that if you get sent back in time, you can't just go  _ telling _ everything. "You're Helen Magnus. Your father is Gregory Magnus, your mother's name is Patricia. Louis Pasteur is your godfather. You studied medicine at Oxford, but they wouldn't give you a degree because you're a woman."

"That's hardly a secret." Will could tell that Magnus didn't appreciate being reminded that she couldn't get equal recognition for her achievements; it showed in every bit of her expression.

"You have four friends interested in the same kind of research you are," he went on. "Watson, Druitt, Griffin, and Tesla. You call yourselves the Five, and you're doing research no other scientist will even touch."

"How do you know that?" she asked indignantly. "Our work is private. No one knows what we're really doing, not even Father. Who told you?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," Will said, tamping down his frustration. Magnus could be so  _ stubborn _ when she wanted to be, so he wasn't really sure how he was going to convince her. " _ You _ told me. After you hired me.  In my time? You're carrying on your father's work with Abnormals--studying them, protecting them, learning from them."

Magnus studied him for a few long moments. "How is it that I live so long?" Straight, to the point, so very Magnus.

"I... don't know if I should tell you," Will admitted. If she didn't know, then maybe she and the others hadn't taken the source blood yet. He didn't know when that had happened, and if he told her, maybe she'd decide that she didn't want that life, and then what would happen? "I'm not sure how much I should tell you, anyway--if I tell you things, then the course of your life might change and it could have consequences for so many people that I don't even know where to start. Believe me, I didn't plan this. I'm... not really sure how I got here."  The last thing he remembered was walking into Henry's lab. He and Tesla were there, examining a device Adam Worth brought back with him; Henry yelled "What the hell was that?", Tesla dropped a wine glass, and the next thing Will knew he was getting run over by some horses.

"Then how will you get back, Dr. Zimmerman?"

"I... don't know." Seriously, how screwed was he? He had no idea how he got here, so he had no idea how he was supposed to get back or even if he  _ could _ get back, and what was he supposed to do next? What if he stepped on a bug and changed the future?

"Then I suppose it's fortunate for you that you landed on the doorstep of someone halfway inclined to believe your blatherings rather than cart you off to the nearest asylum," she said, and moved closer to the bed. "Be still, please; I need to check your bandages."

Will tried to sit very still while she poked and prodded at him. He was used to Magnus poking and prodding at him after various missions, but he wasn't used to it happening with twisted golden curls brushing against his shoulder. She couldn't be more than twenty-five, twenty-six at the most, couldn't be long out of school, and was probably nearing the height of her work with The Five.

"You've a broken arm, a concussion, and several cracked ribs," she informed him, replacing the bandage on his head, "and numerous cuts. It's a wonder the horses didn't trample you to death."

"Kinda feels like it," Will admitted, which earned him a faint smile in return. "So... do you believe me?"

"I don't know." She straightened, and from Will's point of view she seemed very tall. Maybe it was the hair. "But I don't immediately  _ dis _ believe you, so there's that in your favor. I'll discuss it with Father, and in the meantime, you're welcome to remain here while you recuperate from your injuries. I'd hate for you to find yourself under my carriage again."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will finds it hard to adapt to the time period, and joins Magnus and her father to retrieve an Abnormal from an asylum.

Having consulted with her father, who agreed with her that the young man could not be turned away--if he was telling the truth, then he was a dear friend who must be given help, and if he were not, he was mentally unbalanced and must also be given help--Helen's next step was to seek the advice of her dearest friend James for his opinion on what should be done about the matter. Helen wouldn't simply do as he said, of course. If Dr. Zimmerman was her friend and colleague from the future, then it was her responsibility to decide what to do with him. She would make her own opinion after thorough research; however, this wasn't something one could simply read about and come to one's own conclusion, since, as far as she was aware, it was a topic which simply did not exist. The advice of trusted friends would have to do.

So it was that she sent a note to James to call upon her the next day. When they gathered in Father's study, Dr. Zimmerman's reaction to James's appearance was quite astonishing, yet Helen would have missed it had she not been specifically looking at him. The slight startle of movement was that of someone who wishes to greet an old friend with an embrace and then thinks better of it before the impulse can be acted upon.

It was that telling movement that made Helen realize that Dr. Zimmerman could very well be telling the truth.

"Good Lord, man. That's quite a story." James studied her patient carefully, when he'd finished telling the story he told her the previous evening. Helen knew that look well enough to know that James was searching for any sign that he was being less than forthright about his origins.

"I know it sounds ridiculous," Dr. Zimmerman said, "but it's the truth. I'm not really sure what else I can tell you to make you believe me, other than telling you everything that's happened since I met you."

"No," Helen said, interrupting him. "No, you absolutely mustn't reveal what you know about my future. Mine, or that of my friends, or anyone else. Doing so could create a--"

"A paradox," James finished. Normally Helen would be irritated with a man that dared finish her sentences, but she and James were so often of the same mind about things that it was less finishing her sentence and more an extension of her own thought, and she did not mind at all. "If you reveal anything about future events, you could cause those events not to occur, or occur in a way that prevents from taking place, which could nullify the events that brought you here in the first place."

"This makes my head hurt," Dr. Zimmerman groaned, rubbing at his temples.

"You were just run over by my horses yesterday," Helen pointed out. "That's enough to make anyone's head ache a bit."

"Uh, no," he replied, "Although that big horseshoe-shaped dent in the back of my head still hurts like hell. I mean this whole time travel business. I'm afraid if I do more than say 'good morning' to anyone, I'll say too much and mess up the future."

"Surely it won't be as bad as all that," James said. "As long as your conversation concerns what's current, keeping anything of the past to yourself, you should be all right."

"It's going to be incredibly difficult to keep from questioning you about things, though," Helen admitted, though she felt foolish for saying so. "The scientific advances that must be made in the next hundred years! The knowledge that my father's work has advanced beyond England into the Canadian wilderness, the simple fact that I live so long..."

"I'll try to keep my mouth shut," her patient managed, in a dry sort of tone that put her in mind of Nikola for a moment. "The real problem is... I don't know how I'm going to get out of this. I don't know what sent me here or why, so I don't know if I'm going to be able to get back there. And I really, really need to get back. Not just because my being here could just... mess things up, but because there are things going on there that I'm worried about, and I need to get back to."

Dr. Zimmerman said the last bit with a look at her that caught her quite off guard, and for a minute she simply stared at him. Did these events he was so concerned about involve _her_? She was incredibly tempted to ask, but restrained herself. He must have realized how he was looking at her, because he seemed to catch himself, shaking his head almost apologetically and looking back to James. The possibility of what it was that concerned him rattled her, enough so that she missed the subsequent turns of the conversation and only realized it when James looked at her as though expecting an answer to a question he'd just posed. "I'm sorry," she said, forcing herself into a state of attention. "I'm afraid I was lost in thought for a minute. You were saying?"

"I was saying that with your permission, I could make some discreet inquiries among some of my contacts, to see if they've any theories which might be useful," James said. "Not giving away the situation at hand, of course, but simply to assess what resources might be available to us."

"Yes, of course, that could be helpful," Helen replied. "Excellent idea, thank you."

"Then I shall start at once. Helen, Dr. Zimmerman, good day."

James took his leave, retrieving his hat and coat, and Helen was left alone with her patient.

"Look," he said, as soon as James had gone, "I don't want to be a bother, you know, get in the way. I know you have your hands full, with the Sanctuary and your research. If you want me to--"

"Nonsense," Helen interrupted. What sort of a person did he think she was, to turn away someone injured by her own carriage, in front of her own home, much less a friend? It was true that she did not know him from a stranger on the street, and yet his manner, his sincerity conveyed by action and word, had convinced her that in her future he was someone she could depend upon. "You have no money--at least not the sort that you can spend here--no connections, no qualifications or letters of reference. Where would you go? Do not even think of it, Dr. Zimmerman. If you are a colleague and friend, and I have no reason to believe you are not, then it is my duty to assist you in returning to your proper time and giving you a place under my roof until we can do so."

*****

Just as Will figured he would, he felt a hell of a lot worse the day after the accident than he had the day of, and other than his conversation with Watson and Magnus, and seeing her later in the day when she came to check his injuries, he slept most of the day. It was light sleep, and bad at that, since his throbbing arm kept waking him up just when he'd doze off, but it was better than nothing.

To be honest, Will was in a little bit of a funk, since he didn't know how he'd gotten himself in this mess or how the hell he was going to get out of it. He was afraid to talk to Magnus very much, because he was worried about giving away more than he should, which went against his usual habit of confiding in her. That, and worrying about what was happening to Magnus in _his_ time, with the radiation sickness that they didn't have a cure for, left him feeling a little like he didn't have his head on straight.

He'd tried to stay out of sight and not bother anyone, but by the end of the week he was going a little nuts. He'd read almost every book in Gregory Magnus's library--okay, that was an exaggeration, but that's how it felt--and explored as much of the house as he could without seeming like a nosy intruder. It was very easy to see how this house had eventually become the UK Sanctuary. There had been additions over the century, obviously, but it was easy for him to impose the shape of the hallways and the layout of the rooms he'd seen then over the original building. In fact, he was pretty sure that he wasn't very far away from the room where he and Clara had been together that last time before she died. That was a realization that had left him feeling numb for a little while.

The problem he had right now, though, was a lot less existential than time travel and the ghosts of dead lovers. Magnus had invited him, if he felt up to it, to have dinner with her and her father downstairs. In order to look halfway presentable--which Will didn't really care about, but when in Rome and all--he desperately needed to shave. Facial hair might be the style of the times, but Will's patchy scruff just made him look like a drunk on a three-day binge. The problem was that the maid had brought him a straight razor, which Will had never used before, much less used right-handed. Maybe if he slit his throat he'd solve the problem of not screwing up the future, but that wouldn't solve anything where getting home was concerned. He tried to work up some lather with the brush and soap and finding that he pretty much sucked at doing anything right-handed, so he gave up on it. He'd just have to look how he looked.

Will pulled a shirt on and went downstairs, because he knew Magnus wanted to look at the gash on the back of his head again. He found her in what he guessed was her study, further to the back of her house than her father's, with taller windows that let in more natural light. "Hey, Dr. Magnus." It felt strange to call her _Doctor_ Magnus, a little more formal than he was used to, but somehow just calling her _Magnus_ felt too abrupt for this softer, younger version of her, and he got the feeling that calling her _Helen_ broke some kind of rules of etiquette that he didn't know anything about.

Magnus seemed surprised to see him, like she'd been caught up in her work and forgot what time it was. Will was used to that expression, even though it looked a little different on her now. She flushed a little, which was kind of un-Magnus of her, and ducked her head, which made her curls slide over her shoulder as she turned away from the microsope she'd been looking at. "Hello, Dr. Zimmerman. Please, come in. How are you feeling?"

"Better," Will said. "Arm still hurts, but the ribs are feeling better. Feeling almost human again."

Magnus looked happy to hear that, and she nodded to a chair as she turned to a nearby countertop and getting her supplies. "Please sit down, and I'll take a look at your head. Are you troubled with headaches, still?"

"Not after the first couple of days, no," Will said. "They're gone now."

"That's a good sign." She peeled away the bandage on the back of head and Will winced a little; it was still tender. "No sign of infection, also good. I'm applying an ointment that should guard against any further chance of infection and help the wound heal more quickly."

"Okay, sounds good." Will tried to sit still as possible while she worked, but it was hard, because what she was doing tickled a little, and he had to resist the urge to laugh.

"I meant to tell you that James may have a contact with some information that might be useful to you returning to your proper time," Magnus said, as she worked. "He's doing experiments with time and relativity--early research, to be sure, but promising. I thought you'd like to know."

"Yeah, sure, that's great," Will said, giving her what he hoped was an optimistic grin. He wasn't really sure how anybody in this century would have the knowledge to get him back where he needed to be, but he was willing to try anything. He scratched his jaw, itchy from several days' growth that he wasn't used to, and waited for her to be finished.

"I asked Mary to bring you some things for shaving," Magnus said as she finished with bandaging. "Did she not get them to you?"

"Oh, yeah, she did," Will said quickly. "It was great of you to do that, thanks. I just, uh, chickened out." He wiggled his left hand awkwardly at her. "Left-handed. Probably cut my throat if I tried it right-handed."

She laughed a little, a sound he hadn't heard from Magnus in a long time, and it was a brighter, more innocent laugh than he'd ever heard from her before. "Can't have you slitting your throat, Dr. Zimmerman. Wait here. I'll take care of it for you."

"You don't have to--"

"Nonsense," she said. "I'll not see a patient of mine uncomfortable if I can help it." She rang a little bell on the nearest countertop and spoke quietly to the servant who appeared a moment later, and before Will could protest Magnus was briskly whipping up the shaving soap with the brush and dabbing it on his face.

"That tickles," Will said, trying not to flinch. He didn't do a very good job of it. "The bristles. They tickle."

"Have you never done this before?" she asked, genuinely curious. "Or is there some far more advanced method of depilation you depend upon in the future?"

Will laughed. "Not advanced," he said. "Just less ticklish." He tried to stop smiling, to keep some kind of straight face, but it was hard to do now that he'd laughed. "You've done this before?"

"Father fell on the ice one winter and broke his wrist," she said. "He preferred a clean-shaven look at the time, so I had to assist. He abhors the local barber. Now be still, if you please."

It was a little easier to sit still and not smile when Magnus had a wickedly sharp razor pressed to his face. She worked efficiently, but not so fast that Will was actually scared she was going to cut him. "Tilt your head just a bit," she said, nudging his chin. "Just so, right there."

Will did as she asked, and then realized he didn't have anywhere to look that wasn't awkward. Magnus was leaning very close as she got the little places under his jaw that Will usually missed because he was in a hurry, and he didn't want to stare. So he closed his eyes and waited for her to be finished.

A moment later he felt a warm cloth on his cheek, and he opened his eyes. "There, all done," she said, smiling a little as she wiped away the last of the shaving soap. "You look quite respectable."

"Thanks." Will ran his fingers over his jaw and found it was probably the smoothest it had ever been. "You did a good job."

"I always do," she said. "I'll see you at dinner."

*****

The following day, Helen had just invited Dr. Zimmerman to join her in the parlor for a game of chess--she knew he must be quite bored, to be out of his element and time without his friends and his employment to occupy him--when her father appeared in the doorway.

"I've had word from St. Luke's," he said. "The hospital for lunatics, down Old Street," he added, for Dr. Zimmerman's benefit. "The matron there is somewhat aware of our work, and occasionally sends us patients whom we can better serve than they can."

"And she wishes you to come and see a patient?" Helen asked.

"Yes, a young woman admitted two days ago. The matron tells me that there are 'things' that happen around her that she doesn't quite know how to describe. I thought you might like to come along?"

"Of course," Helen replied. "Dr. Zimmerman, would you like to join us?" As a doctor of the mind, perhaps he could be useful in such a visit, and if not, perhaps he would at least find St. Luke's of some interest.

He did indeed seem to find the place of interest. It was obvious he was full of questions about the hospital and its inmates, and only managed with some difficulty to refrain from asking every thing that came to his mind as they toured the facility. But he could not hold all his questions; he wanted to know if this was the way all asylums were run, if the facilities for the poor and those of means were of equal quality, about the qualifications of the medical staff, and by the time they were brought to the patient in question Helen thought the matron was quite out of patience with him. By contrast, Helen found his questions intelligent and thoughtful, and wondered what questions she herself would have about her profession, should she find herself in an unfamiliar time.

The patient was a young woman, slight and dark-haired, who crouched in the corner at the sight of them, muttering to herself in a language which Helen could not immediately distinguish. "Poor thing, she's likely freezing," Helen said, half to herself, and moved to close the window, for this room was far cooler than the corridor outside it, which was comfortably warm. It was only then that she realized that the window was already closed, leaving nothing to explain what felt like a cold draft moving through the room. Her father had noticed it as well, and apparently so had Dr. Zimmerman, for their expressions of puzzlement mirrored her own. And was it a trick of her eyes, or had the room grown dimmer, as well?

Dr. Zimmerman had already taken it upon himself to move closer to the girl, though not so close to impinge upon her personal space, and cautiously. "Don't be afraid," he said, his tone of the utmost gentleness, and he crouched down some few feet away from the girl. "I'm Dr. Zimmerman. You can call me Will, if you want. This is Dr. Helen Magnus, and that's her father, Dr. Gregory Magnus. We just want to talk to you a little bit, if that's okay."

The girl let out a soft shriek of distress and tensed, as if ready to strike, and her father moved as if to confront her, but Helen laid a hand on her father's arm and shook her head slightly. "Let him talk to her, a bit," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She had no doubt this girl was an Abnormal, because as the girl's distress grew, the room became more dim and cold, and Helen wanted to see how Dr. Zimmerman would handle her.

Helen was certain he had noticed the change in temperature in the room, but he continued on as if he hadn't noticed anything peculiar at all. "We're not going to hurt you," Dr. Zimmerman said. "We just want to talk to you a little bit, and help you if we can. Do you remember anything about how you got here?"

Another shriek, and the room grew dim enough that Helen wondered for a moment if the lights had gone out entirely, and her father pulled his overcoat more tightly around him from the sudden chill in the room. But Dr. Zimmerman hadn't reacted at all, even when the girl began babbling frantically, clearly distressed. Helen could make out a bit of the language here and there, as garbled as it was, and thought it to be a Serbian dialect with which she was unfamiliar.

"It's okay," he went on, and Helen was astonished to see that he sat on the floor now, very near to the girl. He'd moved so slowly and easily that she hadn't even noticed his movement until now. "If you can't understand me, that's okay. We'll figure it out. I just want you to know that we aren't going to hurt you, that you're safe with us. I'm guessing you have some kind of powers, something you can do that maybe you couldn't do before, and it scares you. And that's okay. That happens to lots of people, and it doesn't make you a bad person. It doesn't mean anything is wrong with you. It just means you're special."

Dr. Zimmerman continued on in this vein for some long minutes, and it was only once he started repeating some things he'd already said that Helen realized it wasn't about _what_ he said, so much as _how_ he said it. The girl may not be able to understand a word of English, but the tone of his voice and the ease of his gestures made his meaning quite clear. After a time her posture eased, became less tense and wary, and Helen felt some of the chill leave the air as the room became brighter and less drafty.

"Dr. Magnus has a place for anyone who's special, like you," he said gently. "And she can help you learn more about yourself, help you understand what's scaring you so much and maybe even help you control it. And if you want to come with us, you can. I promise, you'll be safe there."

He held out his hand, palm up, and Helen hardly dared breathe as she waited to see if the girl would take it or if she would see it as an act of aggression and strike him. The girl looked only at Dr. Zimmerman; it was as if Helen and her father were not even in the room, as she took no more notice of them than she did the bed or the washstand. And then, quite hesitantly, she took his hand, not pulling away even when he helped her to stand.

"Well done, Dr. Zimmerman," said her father, and Helen was absolutely in agreement.

The girl came quietly enough with them, and was calm enough through the signing of paperwork and other official business that Helen was certain the ride home would be without incident. Thankfully it was almost so, except for a moment when there was a sudden commotion in the street and the horses shied. It must have startled her, for she cried out and everyone in the carriage felt a chill, but Dr. Zimmerman put her at ease again with just a few words and a calming hand upon her shoulder. Helen was amazed at his ability to calm her, and wished that they could communicate with her further, to find out what distressed her so; perhaps Nikola could be of assistance in translation. When they arrived home she sent a footman with a note to ask Nikola to join them as soon as was convenient.

In the meantime they settled the girl in her own room in the wing of the house reserved for those who sought sanctuary there, but she objected wildly when they made to leave, and the curious chill and dimming of the light that accompanied her upset grew even more pronounced. "It's okay, I'm not going anywhere," Dr. Zimmerman told her. "I'll stay with you for a while, is that okay?" That seemed to calm her, when he sat down with her, so Helen joined them, and the room grew warmer. "Do you want anything? Different clothes? Something to eat?" Without a knowledge of English, she wouldn't understand him, and he made gestures to make his meaning clear: touching his clothes, miming the motions of eating. She did not seem to mind the simple dress she'd worn from the asylum, though Helen meant to find her better clothing as soon as she'd allow it, but at the idea of food she responded eagerly, copying his gestures with an almost frantic enthusiasm. When a servant brought food--bread and cheese, slices of cold roast, an apple and a cup of milk--she devoured it all with such haste that Dr. Zimmerman seemed shocked.

"I thought you said they treated patients well at St. Luke's," he said to Helen. His voice was calm, for the girl's benefit, but Helen detected a strong note of outrage beneath the calm. "She acts like she's practically starving."

"Of course they are," Helen said, feeling strangely as though she needed to be on the defensive. "It used to be quite a dreadful place, as all the asylums were, but there have been enormous advances recently in the treatment of mental disorders, and it has improved considerably in the last twenty years or so. I can't imagine that she wouldn't have proper food there, at the very least." But when she looked at the girl again, she was using the crust of the bread to get the last bits of milk from the bottom of her cup, and Helen could not help but wonder if that was truly the case. Had the staff been frightened of her and refused to bring her food or let her out so that she might dine with the other patients? It must have been terrifying for her, knowing no English and afraid of whatever powers she possessed, to be kept from food as well.

"I've never seen anybody eat that fast," he said, as the girl picked the crumbs off her plate and sucked the last bits of apple from the core. "She might as well have inhaled that food."

"Poor girl. Should I send for more?"

"Probably not, not right now. Might make her sick if she hasn't eaten much lately." They both watched as the girl to her bed, pulled the top covering from it, and brought it back to where she had previously been sitting, near the two of them. Then she made a curious gesture, pointing to both Helen and Dr. Zimmerman, and then the door, shaking her head furiously. "It's okay," he said. "We're not leaving right now, okay? Don't worry."

The girl looked at them warily, as if uncertain whether or not they would stay or go, and then seemed to make up her mind at once that they would stay. She curled up in her blanket then, passing up the bed in favor of the floor in the corner of the room, and soon fell into the fitful sleep of the truly exhausted.

"Okay, I know I'm not supposed to tell you anything about the future," he said in a low whisper, once the girl had fallen asleep, "but I haven't seen _anything_ like this the whole time I've worked for you. It's almost like she's some kind of... weather elemental, but none of the elementals I've seen spend much time in a human form."

"I've no idea," Helen replied, her voice equally low. Now that the girl had fallen asleep, she didn't want to wake her until Nikola arrived.

"Maybe Tesla can translate and we can at least make sure she knows she's safe here." He was quiet for a moment, and then went on. "I'm sorry I just kind of jumped in there and took over."

"No, it's quite all right," Helen assured him. "You did well with her, Dr. Zimmerman. You have an excellent manner with patients. I suppose I can see why I took you into my employ--or why I will in the future, I should say. I haven't the slightest idea what is the proper grammatical structure when referring to something in my future and your past."

"Me either." He sighed and rubbed at his face a little, a gesture that made him look faintly tired, though it would be impolite to say so. "It's not just the jumping in and taking over, when really, she was your dad's patient, or yours. I know I should probably just sit back and try not to interfere in _anything_ , so things can happen just the way they're supposed to, but I _can't_. Not when it's something I know I can help. I couldn't just let her go on being so scared like that."

"Of course you couldn't," Helen said. "A good doctor cannot simply sit by when someone is in need of aid, whether it be for a physical malady or a mental one. When you care enough about your work, sitting by and doing nothing is simply not an option."

"Yeah, I guess so." He glanced at the girl and nodded a little, gesturing toward the door. "I can stay with her, if you want to go," he said. "Probably no need for both of us to sit here, really, but she definitely shouldn't be alone when she wakes up."

"Nonsense," Helen said firmly. "If you insist on keeping an eye on your patient, then I insist on keeping an eye on mine." She meant the sentiment quite seriously, but when spoken aloud it came out almost teasingly, which brought a smile to his face; that, in turn, made her blush, and she was not accustomed to doing so.

"Okay, then," he said easily. "But if we're going to sit here and watch her sleep, then you have to do me a favor."

"Of course."

"You have to call me Will. Because in my time, you only call me 'Dr. Zimmerman' when you're ticked off, and you calling me that all the time now makes me feel like you're mad at me for something."

Helen shook her head, laughing a little, though their voices were still low. "I call you 'Dr. Zimmerman' because etiquette demands it," she said, "not because I'm angry with you."

"Okay, but does etiquette really cover time travelling employees from the future?" Helen was not certain whether he was speaking in jest or if he was truly curious. It was something she had learned about her future employee, that sometimes she was quite unable to tell when he was teasing her, unlike with Nikola and John, when she could _always_ tell. "I know you've known me for like, a week, but I've known you for three years almost, and it's driving me nuts."

"I suppose it doesn't," Helen allowed. "Still, it seems terribly familiar to address you so. And do you call me Helen, in your time?"

He shook his head. "No, not really," he said. "I usually call you Magnus. I don't know how I got into that habit, but it kind of stuck. Some people call you Doc, and some call you Helen, but Magnus sort of stuck with me."

"You address me as I would the driver or the butler?" she asked, and though she supposed she should be at least a little insulted, she found she was only amused, for the customs of his time seemed very odd indeed. "And yet I address you as an intimate friend. Your time is very strange, Dr. Zimmerman. You can hardly expect me to call you by your given name if you will not do the same in return."

Now she was certain his smile was a teasing one, as it lit up his face so. "Okay then, I'll try," he said. "But it's three years of habit, so I'll probably slip."

"I'm sure you can manage," she said, with as straight a countenance as she could muster, although she feared she was not successful in the face of his teasing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next chapter will have Tesla, and a little more adventure.


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